


On the Eve of Battle

by words_are_wind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, Reunion, S8 compliant, also jon and gendry are bastard boi bffs, bc it was stupid to kill him off, this is the product of my deep affection for gendrya and jonrya, tho rickon is alive in my version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_are_wind/pseuds/words_are_wind
Summary: A reworking of how Arya and Gendry spent their time together before the Long Night, with special attention to their dynamic after Jon finds them.





	On the Eve of Battle

**Author's Note:**

> this is just me having a bit of fun with sweet & soft gendrya, and loving the possibility of big bro jon, protective idiot jon. *i still think it's ridiculous d&d never built more of a dynamic b/t jon & gendry, also how no one knew or even had an inkling about arya/gendry? dumb* there's another version of this where after jon leaves, she n gendry definitely bone if that makes anyone feel better.

Arya stalks off from atop the battlements, leaving the Hound and Beric to their drinking and pious ramblings. As she swiftly walks down towards the main castle, she sees a large figure lurking by the entrance. Upon a closer look, she makes out the burly shape of Gendry, his expression unsure as he roughly palms the staff he holds in his hands.

Arya’s relieved to see him. She had tried to talk with Gendry after the war council earlier, but he slipped away amidst the lingering conversations. They haven’t spoken much while preparing for battle. Every so often, Arya will wander to the forge and watch him work, silently holding vigil until Gendry can pull himself from the stupor of hammering and shaping steel. They sup together most nights, content to quietly fill their bellies and listen to the winds howl.

“Gendry?”

He turns, his mouth slightly slack-jawed at having been caught. “Ar—My lady,” he amends. He looks sheepish. _He looks clean_, she thinks absently. Clean shaven, soot rubbed from his hard jawline and neck, Gendry dons fresh clothes and a decent looking cloak. She wonders if she stepped right up in his space, would the scent of smoke still cling to him? Would he still be warm from the smithy fire?

“What are you doing out here?”

Gendry gestures to the staff. “I, uh—”

But Arya is loathe to have this conversation outside in the barren cold. “Come inside. You’ll freeze your balls off in this chill. A southron boy like you,” she tuts. She walks brusquely past him, leaving him little chance to object.

Gendry snorts and calls out. “This southron boy went beyond the wall, remember?” He feels a bit of tension leave his body, and cautiously follows her.

“And that was very brave of you. But would you rather be out here tonight than inside the castle walls?”

“S’not proper,” he mutters.

Arya whirls around on him, and Gendry stops short. They are nearly toe to toe, and he has to rear his head back a bit to stare down at her, trying his best to meet her gaze. “Who cares?” she asks. Her tone is challenging.

Then Gendry smiles, put out and clearly affectionate. “I’ve something to give you, m’lady. If you prefer inside, then I guess I have no choice.”

Arya nods and throws open the door to the main hall. “C’mon then,” she calls back.

They bypass the gathering of people in the hall, going down one corridor and entering the kitchens. Arya flits from one side to the next, humming lowly as she swipes provisions for their last night. Some dried meat strips, fresh fruit, soft cheese. As she leads Gendry through the vast network of hallways, he can only follow and stupidly gape at the sheer size and structure of the castle. He can’t fathom what it must’ve been like to grow up in such a place, but as he watches Arya comfortably pad down its corridors, the small sconces leaving a trail of golden light on her passing figure, he _can _imagine a young Arya tearing down the halls of Winterfell, underfoot and in search of her next adventure. When they inevitably round on her chambers, Gendry halts. There is no one else within seven stones’ throw to see or hear them, but a lifetime of knowing his place has left Gendry unsure and alert at the first sign of impropriety.

Arya pays him no mind and blithely throws the food onto a side table, quickly removing her gloves to kneel and stoke the fire. When she doesn’t hear him follow, though, she looks up. “What are you doing?” she asks for the second time tonight.

Gendry shoots her a pained glare. “I—"

Exasperated, Arya rises and has to physically guide him through the doorway, her small hands gentle yet firm in the way she ushers him in. “Gendry,” she says, her voice pitched lower with a bit of lighthearted mirth. “This could be our last night. Alive. Breathing. Maybe just this once, we can drop the courtesies, please?”

He gives a nervous jerk of his head that he hopes resembles a nod, and carefully sits on the edge of the chaise, propping the base of the staff by his feet and angling it towards Arya.

“That for me?” she asks excitedly.

“It is.”

Arya steps forward and takes the staff from Gendry, softly running her hands down its length and paying special attention to the steel binding at the middle. She traces her finger over the wolf engraving and details, humming in pleasure. When she peers down at him, her eyes are warm. “It’s wonderful.” She lightly tosses it from one hand to the other to test its weight. “Perfect.”

Gendry can feel a faint blush working its way down his neck, and all he can offer is a small grunt of acknowledgment. Laughing a bit, Arya twirls the staff once, twice, in a graceful arc before placing it at the foot of her bed. She stills by the table and takes an ornate pitcher in hand, pouring a goblet of something and handing it to Gendry, but he hesitates. “S’not wine, don’t worry,” she says.

He nods in thanks and sips at the warm ale. “Still don’t know how to drink it,” he admits.

Arya takes a seat beside him, careful not to crowd too close, but near enough that she can feel the warmth of Gendry’s body seep into the space between them. “You don’t like how sweet it is, I remember.”

“Though, maybe I should’ve learned to like it. Beats the watered down shit they used to serve along the Kingsroad inns.” He leans back and his eyes glaze over with nostalgia.

“You never drank much back then.”

“No. Still don’t.” Gendry peers down at his goblet and his grip tightens. “Don’t wanna be like him,” he mutters, before his head snaps up and he wishes he could take the words right back.

But Arya has been watching him this whole time, as she often does. She catches his words, along with he stricken look on his face. “Who?”

“Like…like my father.”

Arya cocks her head to the side, brows furrowed like she’s working a difficult set of sums. “Your father? I thought you said you didn’t…” she trails off.

“You know him,” Gendry says, turning towards her with a grimace. “Everyone in the fucking seven kingdoms knows him. The fat, whoremongering, drunk that he was.”

“King Robert,” she breathes.

Gendry scoffs. “The one and only.”

“When—I mean how do you—"

He shakes his head and places the goblet on the floor. “It’s what that red bitch took me for. Said she needed king’s blood.” His hands shake in his lap. He hates talking about it, hates remembering the hungry, mad look on the witch’s face. It makes him feel dirty, shameful.

Arya inches closer and places a hand on his forearm. “Did she hurt you?” Her voice is clipped, cold, betraying the warm angling of her body and the comforting touch.

Gendry is silent before Arya speaks again. “I’ll kill her,” she promises him.

His hands still their shaking and he settles a warm palm over her hand. To anyone else, Arya’s promise of bloodshed might be unsettling, but Gendry remembers how she was the only one who fought for him the day he was sold. He hopes Arya can make out the thanks in his touch. “Let’s deal with the others first,” he suggests.

The line of her mouth settles into a grim frown at that. “That day, when the goldcloaks first asked for you…”

“Now I know why.” He can’t help but snort. “The gods do love a jape, don’t they? Some bastard smith from Flea Bottom, the shameful son of a king. Fuckin’ riot.”

Arya turns her hand over to grasp his and squeeze gently. “Gendry.”

He squeezes back and shakes his head. “It’s fine, I’m sorry to bring it up. It doesn’t matter now, King Robert’s long dead.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Arya says quietly. But then she bites her lip and lifts a free hand to cup the side of his face, thumb running a line along his cheek. “Well, your coloring, I suppose. And strength, too. I’m sure you wielding a warhammer’s given the older men a fright,” she says with a bright, sudden laugh. Her hand slides down to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing along his short hair.

Gendry hangs his head, shocked at their sudden closeness and willing his breaths to stay even. How long’s it been since someone touched him, just to touch? Just for comfort and affection. Never to use him.

“But you’re better than he ever was,” Arya continues. “A better man by far.”

When he peers up at her, her gaze is fierce and—he must be imagining this—loving. He moves ever closer. “You sound very sure, m’lady.”

And it’s like Arya suddenly remembers herself, takes note of their position, and roughly clears her throat. She draws back and her hands fall to her side, fiddling with the hem of her tunic. “I know you quite well Gendry,” she chirps, little trace of the previously tense moment in her voice.

He would laugh at her reaction if he weren’t mourning the loss of her warmth. “That you do.”

Arya rises and puts some space between them, opting to lean against the edge of her bed, fingers reaching out and absently running along the dragonglass staff. “Thank you for this.”

Gendry hums. “You’ll do some damage with it.”

She nods, her expression suddenly conflicted. She doesn’t want to think about having to use it, about the upcoming battle, right now. Would that she and Gendry could suspend time and stay in this room for the rest of their days. Drinking good ale, sharing japes, maybe a kiss or two.

“Are you scared?” Gendry asks, cutting into her inner ramblings.

Arya’s gaze snaps to his, and she gives a low snort. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be.”

“Never thought this is how I’d be spending my last night on earth.”

“How’s that?”

“Holed up in a high lady’s chambers drinking good ale and contemplating death.”

She tips her head to the side, smile curling up in that wry and conspiratorial way it often does when she’s around Gendry. She shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

Gendry leans forward and huffs. “If it pleases m’lady, it pleases me.”

“Did you ever think this was where we’d end up?” she asks, looking down at her feet.

“You? Aye.” She hears him rise and place his goblet on the table, feels him move closer, and suddenly he comes into frame, her eyes settling on his legs as he fits himself between hers. He reaches out and tips her chin up, rough fingers gentle and warm at the underside of her neck and behind her ear. “Me?” Gendry asks quietly, “not likely.”

_He’s so close_, Arya thinks_. _Her heartbeat thunders inside her head, she feels the pitiful thing flutter against her ribcage like it’s meant to burst free. She swallows and wills her voice steady. “I always wanted you with me, back here, back home. You know that.”

Gendry nods, eyes boring into hers. “I know, Arya.”

“Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if the brotherhood hadn’t sold you. And before that, if you hadn’t decided to stay on with them. What if you had come with me to the Twins?”

His hand runs down to settle against her neck, giving the slightest squeeze. “We’d likely be dead,” he says, voice mournful.

“Aye,” Arya whispers, shutting her eyes tight. Visions of the Red Wedding dance across her eyelids; her lady mother’s throat, slit, her brother’s limp body, headless as the Freys stitched Grey Wind to him. She remembers uselessly struggling against the Hound as he held her back. She wanted to fight for them, she would’ve been willing to die for them. _I should’ve died with them, _a traitorous part of her thinks. Rather belatedly, Arya notices wetness drip down her cheeks, and Gendry is quick to wipe her tears away, pulling her closer. She keeps her eyes shut as she pitches forward and all but shoves her face into his chest, inhaling his scent and banishing the awful memories away.

Gendry’s hands settle across her shoulders and back, rubbing soothing patterns into her skin. “I’m sorry about what happened to your mother and brother. And your father,” he adds. “They would’ve been proud of you, Arya.” He draws back when her breathing evens and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe her face. This close, he can see errant tears cling to her eyelashes. Gently, Gendry sweeps the pad of his thumb across her closed eyelids before drawing a path from her cheek to her ear, down her soft jawline, finally nudging against her lower lip. His eyes follow and it’s as though he’s memorizing every detail of Arya’s face, taking note of how much she’s grown. _Grown strong and beautiful,_ he thinks. “You survived,” he says, a bit of wonder creeping into his voice. “You’re a fighter.”

Arya finally opens her eyes, leaning into his touch. She lifts a hand to lightly circle his wrist and lets out a little sigh. “I’m tired of fighting,” she says quietly.

Pulling back, only to sit beside her on the bed and lace their fingers together, Gendry tries to smile. “Just one more night.”

“And if we survive? It’ll be another battle to kill Cersei.” Arya stares at the wall opposite. The thought of leaving Sansa, Bran, and Rickon here while she marches to King’s Landing with Jon fills her with dread. She remembers what happened the last time the Starks separated. _Wolves don’t fare well in the south_, she thinks.

Gendry snorts and nudges Arya’s shoulder with his, a bit of levity in his movement. “_Fuck_ Cersei. Let the dragon queen fly south and melt the mad one.”

“And what will we do? Twiddle our thumbs?”

She feels Gendry shrug beside her. “We’ll stay here. If we survive, we’ll stay in Winterfell. I’ll help your family rebuild, I’ll forge new weapons for your house. We can practice sparring… I might even let you swing my warhammer,” he says with a wink—or what Arya supposes is a wink. Charming looks strange on Gendry. And rather lovely. “You can show me the godswood,” he continues, his voice gaining conviction. “And we’ll go search for your beast of a direwolf. Anything, Arya, anything but go south and fight another highborn’s war.”

Arya allows herself to imagine a life where they are alive and happy in the north. “That sounds nice,” she says with a nod. “And too easy,” she amends, glancing at him, unsure.

“Aye, well let me hold onto it the eve of this battle. It ought to keep me going.” The looming fight emboldens him further, and Gendry brings their hands up to brush a kiss at her fingertips. He imagines another lifetime where there is no threat of war or otherworldly demons, where he might properly court Arya and they would take long walks round the gardens or the ride through the woods. He’d kiss her hands just like this.

Arya leans her head against his bicep and smiles indulgently. “Just this once.”

“Arya, listen, I—” but before Gendry can finish, the door to her chambers fling open and Jon stands at the entrance, the small yet exuberant smile often kept just for Arya fading from his face.

Jon’s look of surprise at not finding Arya alone quickly morphs as he takes in the scene before him. She and Gendry, a man Jon respects though hardly know—who Arya _doesn’t_ know, he thinks—are sitting quite close on her bed, their interlocked fingers speak of an intimate relationship. Arya watches in amusement (and Gendry, in horror) as Jon’s expression turns so hard it could curdle milk.

Deftly, Arya gives Gendry one last squeeze before pulling herself from him and taking a step towards Jon, gesturing for him to come in. “Brother,” she says sweetly.

Jon’s posture is tense. “Am I interrupting?” he asks, only eyeing Gendry.

Gendry clambers to his feet, the back of his knees knocking against the bed and propelling him forward. “No—of course not,” he stutters. “Your grace.” He makes to kneel but Arya’s soft snort cuts in.

“Your grace?”

And Gendry could groan. He shoots her a glare, slightly amused but entirely longsuffering. “Arya,” he pleads. “Don’t start.”

“Just sounds queer is all! We’re not royalty,” Arya says, nose curling momentarily as she thinks of the title. She looks to Jon, then, her smile warm and teasing. “Don’t tell me you like having him call you that. His ‘m’ladys’ are grating enough,” she chides, though her tone is light as she takes a step closer to Gendry and nudges his arm.

“I should call you princess,” he mutters, shushing over her indignant “Don’t you dare!”

Jon looks between them and feels an interloper to their exchange. “You two. You seem very familiar with each other,” Jon observes quietly. His voice and expression are calm, belying the terrible suspicion and growing dread at seeing his little sister so open with a man.

She returned to him a woman grown, knowledgeable in warfare and deadly in her attacks, and while Jon has appreciated getting to know this version of his sister, he cannot help the flare of protectiveness whenever Arya is involved. In the past few moons, members of the free folk, even Northmen in the guard, have eyed Arya with naked curiosity and poorly concealed want. She makes for an interesting sight, clad in leather breeches and a well-fitted tunic and jerkin Sansa must’ve stitched for her. They watch her spar in the training yard, flitting here and there with a thin dragonglass rapier and dagger, graceful and dangerous and altogether inviting. Jon is always nearby, jaw clenched and fists ready should any make the mistake of propositioning her. Sometimes he feels like an idiot, stewing in bitter protectiveness, unsure of how to handle Arya as a woman grown. Then, she’ll shoot him a wolfish grin and roll her eyes as if to say _No one handles me, brother._

Tormund made a bawdy jape once about stealing Arya as his own spearwife, and it took everything for Jon not to throw a punch at his friend, horror crawling up his spine at the thought of Arya as anyone’s little wife. Much to his chagrin, he’s grown used to angling his body protectively over hers during war council or rowdy suppers to stave off suitors and wandering eyes, his hand often gripping Longclaw to keep from throttling his own men. “You think her a child,” Sansa drawled once, humor evident in her tone, and Jon didn’t know what to say. He knows Arya is more than capable of taking care of herself. In truth, he knows she’d sooner gut a man in half than allow herself dishonored, but that knowledge does nothing to curb his worry. _She’s without a father_, he reminds himself constantly, sadly. He remembers Arya a dirtied nine year old, the hem of her dress perpetually caked in mud as she traipsed through the wolfswood, practicing swordplay or gathering wildflowers. To reconcile those memories with the woman before him today was difficult. And all the while, he never considered how Gendry might come into the picture.

Jon watches as Gendry lifts a hand to the back of his neck, sheepishly avoiding his gaze. “We, we uh,” he starts, nervously. “Well, you see—"

“We’ve known each other a while Jon,” Arya offers quietly. She can see how conflicted Jon is, and while she thinks him foolish for it, she remembers how her best brother would do anything to protect her, and affection blooms in her chest.

He eyes the pair of them carefully and cocks his head to the side. “Longer than your time here at Winterfell?”

“Yes,” Arya answers simply.

“How?” His question sounds dangerously close to a demand, and while Jon knows he’s in no position to demand anything of Arya, he cannot help how his voice hardens.

Arya rolls her eyes and pulls away from Gendry to usher Jon forward in a placating fashion. “Oh, Jon. Don’t use your lord’s face,” she says. She lightly grabs him by the elbow and gestures towards the chair. “Sit down properly if you want the whole story, brother.”

Jon glares at Gendry as he moves forward. He may not be as tall or as broad as the armorer but his skills with a blade give him a fighting chance should they come to blows.

Gendry can feel the hostility rolling off Jon, and though he was nervous at the sight of Arya’s big brother a moment ago, he suddenly swallows down the urge to snort. Jon so resembles his sister when frustrated, all furrowed brows, lips slightly curled as if to snarl, cold eyes slate gray. _Must be a Stark thing_, he thinks. Instead, he lowers his gaze a bit out of deference and moves to lean against the post of Arya’s bed. “I met Arya in King’s Landing,” he admits. “After, well, after King Joffrey’s sentence on your lord father, she gathered with other recruits to the Night’s Watch.”

A sudden chill runs up Jon’s spine. No one had heard from Arya after Father’s beheading. No one even knew where she was in the moments leading up to it, hardly anyone believed her to be alive after. To think that she escaped among a rag tag group of would-be orphans or criminals does little to ease his stomach. When he looks to his sister, she sits beside him and grabs his hand.

“No one knew I was there in the crowd. When father was…” Jon hears her falter and grips her hand in his, squeezing too hard. His heart is beating too fast. He did not want to think of Ned Stark atop the Sept of Baelor, helpless as Ice came down on his neck. “A ranger from the Night’s Watch recognized me and shorn my hair, disguised me as a boy,” Arya powers on. “He placed me with the rest of the recruits, where I met Gendry, and planned to drop me here at Winterfell on the way to the wall.” Jon can make out the slight downturn of her lips, the way her gaze is steadfastly ignoring his, her voice even and inflectionless.

“You never made it.”

At this, Arya glances back at him, eyes sad. “No, the goldcloaks found us soon after. We marched to Harrenhal, where more prisoner camps were. Later on, we escaped, only to be taken up by the Brotherhood Without Banners. We traveled with them for a time.”

Jon pales. He’d heard tales of the band of outlaws, how they raided the land and small folk with little regard for the crown. He is aghast to find out his sister traveled among them and turns to Gendry for confirmation. “Thoros and Beric’s men?”

He nods, face grave. “Aye.”

“What then?”

Gendry pitches forward, leaning elbows on knees. “We were separated. I…” He clears his throat. “I wanted to stay on with the brotherhood,” he admits, eyes searching Jon’s for understanding. “I wish I could take it back, I—"

“He was sold to the red witch,” Arya cuts in, her voice hard. “Beric and his men sold him like cattle, and after that I ran. The Hound caught me and tried to ransom me off to Aunt Lysa but by that time, she was already dead.” She omits entirely the plan to take her to the Twins first. It hurts too much to remember, and Arya would rather go to the grave with Catelyn and Robb’s last moments than burden her brothers and sister with the knowledge that she witnessed the whole thing. Gendry watches her knowingly, gaze soft and sad. “When the Hound was wounded after an encounter with Lady Brienne, I left him. Found passage across the Narrow Sea to Braavos. I tried to find a ship that would sail north, but none of them would.” Arya peers at Jon, her gaze apologetic and almost ashamed. “I wanted to go to you, Jon.”

Jon sighs and shakes his head, trying to make sense of Arya’s journey. He reaches out and smooths a hand over her dark, slightly unruly hair. So much like his own, he thinks. The pair of them always so closely resembled Ned, their coloring that of the true North. From the moment he laid eyes on her as a babe, Jon vowed to his father he would protect her always. His heart splits at the knowledge Arya had to survive under such conditions. “Little sister,” he murmurs, trying to swallow past a lump in his throat. “I wish I’d left the wall and found you earlier. I’m sorry it took so long for us to reunite,” he croaks, a silent apology in his tone. Arya leans into his touch and stifles the urge to hide against her big brother’s chest.

Gendry suddenly averts his eyes, feeling like an intruder on a family moment. He feels a slight pang of loss as well, having never known this type of bond or love. He thinks of the countless half brothers and sisters he might’ve reunited with had the queen not had them murdered. He thinks it foolish to reminisce on an absent family, but the ale and the looming threat of battle turn him contemplative. He’d seen how Jon and Arya interacted since her arrival at Winterfell. It was a loosely guarded secret that the King in the North had a special softness when it came to his baby sister. That they so resembled one another, often communicating without words, sharing wolfish grins and laughs was a welcome sight to many Northerners. He often thought Arya and Jon must’ve reminded the small folk and the Northern nobles of Lord Stark. Jon seemed less the solemn king and more a loving brother when he would spar with Arya or jape with her during supper, and with each exchange, Gendry watched Arya glow a bit brighter, her smile open and honest and beautiful. He’d spent so long mourning her loss; now he was lucky enough to see her home and among her family. If Gendry had to temper the slight hollowness or stray pang of jealousy, then so be it. Seeing Arya happy after all she suffered felt like a gift. Rousing from his thoughts, Gendry looks back when he feels Jon’s heated gaze on him.

“You never mentioned Arya. The whole time we were at Dragonstone and then beyond the wall,” he says accusingly. “You came to me speaking of our fathers’ friendship, but not once did you mention traveling through the south with my little sister.”

Jon is certain of his displeasure, though less sure if it’s rooted in hurt or betrayal. He’d like to call Gendry a friend, but they are not Robert and Ned, not friends since boyhood or fostered among a cheery environment. They’re just two bastard boys turned king and prince, Jon thinks bitterly. War these days hadn’t allowed for much in the way of friendship; they’ve both lost too much. But then, there’s Arya. Maybe that’s what ties them.

Gendry straightens and looks back at Jon, gaze steady though apologetic. “I didn’t know of Arya’s fate, your grace. When we’d parted, it wasn’t on the best terms. When I heard news of the,” he stops to clear his throat, “of the Red Wedding and then that business with the Bolton bastard, I thought m’lady had perished. Didn’t seem right bringing that up with you. I’m sorry, your grace.”

Jon eyes him carefully. Arya continues to squeeze his hand and softly nudges his side. “Don’t be cross with Gendry, Jon. He thought me dead, he didn’t want to further burden the man he knew as my best brother. We protected each other along the road. I wouldn’t have made it without Gendry. I owe him a debt.” Her tone is reproachful. _He was there when I had no one, _she seems to say with her eyes. Soon enough, Jon relents and nods slowly.

“That’s not true. M’lady—” Gendry stops short to grunt, as Arya sends a swift kick towards his shin.

He glares at her, stifling the urge to kick back. “_Arya_ saved my hide with the goldcloaks, she got us out of Harrenhal, she was the only one to fight for me when I was sold to the Red Woman. I should’ve stayed with her. I’ll regret it for the rest of my days, your grace.”

Jon considers this. As Arya grumbles at his side, muttering that such words weren’t necessary, he can see the affection and protectiveness between the two. _Gendry is a good man_, he reminds himself. _The kind of man Father would approve of. _That he and Arya took care of each other when the odds seemed stacked against them is a welcome comfort. When he looks back at Gendry, his expression thaws, even managing a small smile. “Please call me Jon, Gendry.”

“Aye.” Gendry nods. “King Jon,” he intones primly, followed up with a grin.

With a playful roll of his eyes, Jon snorts. He turns to his sister and places a warm hand across her shoulder. “He knew I was your favorite brother then?” he asks with a wry smile.

“Of course. I told him all about Needle.”

Jon’s eyes brighten. “You had it with you then?” He hadn’t seen it at her hip when they reunited, nor in the days that followed. With all the talk of wights, the focus was solely on obsidian weapons. Jon thinks back to the dragonglass blades Arya’s been training with lately. _Gendry must’ve made them for her_, he thinks stupidly. _Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention_.

Arya suddenly springs from her seat and looks at Jon with unbidden glee. “I _still_ have it, brother.” She bounds over to her dresser for the blade.

In the meantime, Jon watches as Gendry’s gaze follows Arya, expression wholly warm and loving. Jon leans forward and clears his throat lowly, and the smith’s head snaps back in surprise, as if remembering that Jon was in the room too. He crooks a finger forward, and Gendry hesitantly leans in, brows raised.

“I like you, Gendry, but you do anything to harm my sister and I’ll have Ghost rip out your innards, neck to navel. The others will be the last thing you have to worry about,” he murmurs.

Gendry might think it a jape save for the steely look on Jon’s face, his voice low and cutting like gravel. He remembers a previous conversation he’d overhead outside the forge one evening, two stable hands whispering about the King threatening Littlefinger in a chokehold, promising to skewer the master of coin himself if he went anywhere near Lady Sansa. Gendry knows the man before him would not hesitate to draw blood should harm befall his family. He watches in fascination as Jon’s expression smooths out, smile placid as he leans back in his seat.

Arya bounds right back, throwing a curious glance at the stricken look on Gendry’s face before turning to Jon and handing him Needle, pommel first. “It’s a bit weathered, but she’s served me well,” she says with a smile.

Jon turns his attention to Arya, seeing a bit of that little girl he grew up with peek through in her expression. All the air whooshes out of his chest. He’s missed her so. Even standing before him, he misses her, misses all the time they were apart. He shakes his head and smiles. “I can’t believe you’ve kept it all this time.”

“It wasn’t easy, I had to steal it back a few times,” Arya says with a shrug, “but it’s all I had left of you. And Winterfell.” She thinks back to her time in Braavos. _Needle was Jon Snow’s smile_.

Jon stands and pulls Arya into a tight embrace, trying his best to clamp down the sudden hysteria bubbling in his chest. He’s just gotten her back but yet again, war knocks at their doorstep. Any more loss and Jon will go mad.

As Arya burrows into the furs at his neck, she peeks over at Gendry, her eyes glittering. A warm feeling settles in her stomach, at having the people she cares most for at her side. A few years ago, such a reunion seemed impossible. Gendry returns her gaze with a small smile and a dip of his head. _Thank the gods, _he thinks_. _He’s not sure he follows the faith but, in this moment, he is thankful, he thinks it a miracle that Arya returned safely to her family, _to him._

Jon pulls back and eyes the both of them, something resembling acceptance settling in his chest. “I’m glad you two had each other. You kept each other alive.” He nods to himself and turns towards Gendry. “Thank you, truly.”

When Gendry stands to embrace Jon’s arm, the gesture is earnest if not a tad stiff. “It’s nothing, your grace.”

“House Stark owes you a debt.”

“No—no, I…”

Jon offers him a slap on the back and light laugh. “We do, Gendry.” And then his tone hardens just the slightest. “But don’t forget what I said.”

Gendry gulps stupidly, and Arya watches them, brows furrowed. “What—” she starts to ask.

But Jon steps back and smiles guilelessly. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll leave you two.” He makes his way to the door, stopping by Arya to squeeze her hand and kiss the crown of her forehead. “Come to Father’s solar later, little sister. Gods know I’ll still be up. Tell me about your time in Braavos. Or with the brotherhood. I think I’d like to hear your stories on the eve of battle.” She nods and kisses Jon’s cheek in return.

“See you on the field, Gendry.”

“Aye, your grace.”

At the doorway, he looks back and pins him with a playful glare. “Jon.” And then he’s off, quietly padding down the hallway.

Arya smiles indulgently and shakes her head. Then she turns towards Gendry, stepping into his space and carefully looping her arms round his neck, her expression light. “He likes you.”

Gendry thinks of that sweet beast Ghost ripping out his throat, and coughs. “Mayhaps,” he croaks, pulling her closer. Any worries he may have are tempered when Arya leans up to kiss him.


End file.
